


Warsmiths' Discipline

by kishiriaz



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: Consensual Kink, M/M, Married Life, Married Sex, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishiriaz/pseuds/kishiriaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorn is spending time in the pain glove still.  Perturabo doesn't think that's healthy and decides to do something.  Part of the Retirement AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warsmiths' Discipline

Fulgrim knew Perturabo needed to unburden his soul in some way. He’d asked Fulgrim over for tea, which was in itself innocuous, but there had just been something in the Warsmith’s tone of voice that worried him slightly. Fulgrim and Perturabo had never been particularly close, and Fulgrim suspected Perturabo needed advice about something uncomfortably personal.

Protocol demanded small talk. Fortunately, the ongoing decoration and furnishing of the Rock House gave plenty of subject matter. The Dorns had held a housewarming party as soon as the conical rocky hill had been hollowed out and its rooms made habitable. Now, less than a year later, the place was richly appointed, the stone floors covered with bright area rugs, the walls hung with paintings. The furniture style varied from room to room. Perturabo served tea and cake in a formal dining room dominated by a long, heavy wooden table with intricately carved legs. A tapestry with the chevrons and fist of the Imperial Warsmiths covered one wall. Fulgrim mentally compared this to the intimacy of Dorn’s and Perturabo’s bedroom on the ground floor, where a canopied four-poster bed and two nightstands were the only furniture. Perturabo had only taken a cursory moment to show the bedroom to Fulgrim, so he guessed Perturabo wanted to ask something related to the most private aspect of his and Rogal’s life together.

"I knew you and Rogal would turn your home into something incredible,” Fulgrim said, glancing around at the sculpted arches of the room. “Which work is yours and which is his?”

“The excavations and stonemasonry are largely his. The electricity and lighting is mine. Your Ferrus made that chandelier above the table. It takes actual candles and dear Magnus made those.” Perturabo pointed to the cake. “Rogal has turned out to be a superb baker.”

“Sounds like you don’t need the Four Jacks in the village, then.”

“Oh no. Besides, Abbadon and Tarik annoy Rogal terribly.”

“Rogal is still crotchety, then?” Perturabo smiled and nodded. “Something must relax him, though. His hobbies, perhaps? A roll in that great big bed?”

Perturabo gazed into his mug of tea. “It’s a little hard for me to talk about.”

“It sounds personal, and you’ve never been good or comfortable at discussing that,” Fulgrim said, dropping his playful demeanor. “You know I won’t judge.”

Perturabo considered. “Rogal is a masochist.”

“Water is wet. Sanguinius has wings. Magnus has a great big red ass.”

“But he wants me to cause him pain. I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“You know he trusts you, then.”

“So he’s said."

“Does he still use that pain glove thing?”

Perturabo nodded. “It’s at the Warsmith Legion center here. My men have asked for it to be removed. His men and he refuse. I’ve demanded that it be strictly voluntary, even if the idea of the thing makes me sick. Rogal explained that before he took over the VIIth that they used flogging as a punishment instead. I know intellectually that the glove causes no physical harm. Still….” His voice trailed off.

Fulgrim thought for a long few minutes, sipping his tea. Finally he said, “Could it be that if you indulged his masochism that he might let go of this whole corporal punishment thing for his legion entirely?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“I’ll admit that this isn’t something Ferrus and I are into, but I’m certainly familiar with it. As a matter of fact, I can think of some books that might be helpful.”

Perturabo led Fulgrim to his study. The room was packed with work benches scattered with tools and machinery, notebooks, drafting paper, and pens. An expensive audio system dominated one corner. Fulgrim wasn’t sure he would have found the cogitator if Perturabo hadn’t pointed it out. They spent the next hour finding texts on line and loading them into a dataslate that Perturabo password-protected and tucked behind some blank painter’s canvases.

“One more thing you may want to try,” Fulgrim added. “Find out when he’s using the nerve glove. Be there when he comes out and ask him if he wants your comfort. That’s a big part of this for masochists sometimes. Comfort.”

Fulgrim stayed until it was almost time for the princesses to come home from school. Hestia arrived on time and went upstairs to start her homework. Perturabo began to prepare the evening meal.

Rogal returned shortly after. Dorn placed his hard metal briefcase and rolls of blueprints in their accustomed spot in the ovoid foyer. He was dressed in khaki carpenter’s pants and a tailored, button-down shirt that he unbuttoned halfway as he treaded down the hall towards the kitchen. His usual dour expression evaporated and a smiled warmed his craggy features as he beheld Perturabo by the kitchen island. They exchanged a lingering kiss and chatted about how their days had cone. Perturabo was open about Fulgrim’s visit, only omitting the topic of Dorn and the pain glove.

Hestia came downstairs to set the table. Dinner was in the dining room with the family clustered at one end of the table. After dinner, when Hestia finished her evening chores and returned to her room, Rogal said, “Tomorrow is my weekly visit to the legion."

“I should go with you.”

“Sigismund, Efried, and I are planning a formal Visitation. You, me, and Hestia, with the legion passing in review. Hestia hasn’t been seen in public as a primarch since our family-making, and this will be good for all of us. For myself, it’s been far too long since I was aboard the _Phalanx_.

“I’ll have to work on a new suit of armour for her.”

“Yes. She’ll be able to do some serious weapon training while we’re there, as well.”

Once Hestia was in bed, Perturabo and Rogal Dorn spent the evening as they normally did in the salon. This room was on an upper level, and was where the couple kept their valuable books and artwork. The single window was stained glass, depicting the Aquila. The furniture was old fashioned, overstuffed red velvet. The mantel over the fireplace held small items of sentimental value from their homeworlds. They liked to spend their evenings reading or drawing, with a carafe of wine and music playing on the phonocaster. Dorn was assembling miniature buildings as part of the terrain for the strategy game the Iron Warriors liked to play. Many of the Imperial Fists had taken a liking to it, as had their primarch.

Perturabo looked up from his book to watch him work. “It’s been a while, but I’m still delighted you adopted that from our legion.”

Rogal nodded. “It’s a valuable learning tool. I find it relaxing to prepare the landscape as well, although I’ll never have the deftness in my fingers that you do.” He pressed two sides of a plastek cathedral together. “The clockwork tanks and Imperial Knights you create are nothing I could.”

“Perhaps you’ll fit in a short game tomorrow,” Perturabo suggested.

“I doubt it. If we’re to prepare a Visitation, I’ll be starting a long list of elements of it, creating a timeline, and delegating the tasks. I’ll be gone until supper, I’m sure.”

Perturabo nodded. Time in the nerve glove would no doubt be part of that.

By the time they climbed under the covers of their great four-poster bed, Perturabo had a plan. He would message Sigismund as soon as Dorn was out the door the next morning.

Unfortunately, Dorn wanted to leave as soon as he had had one cup of recaf. This presented Perturabo with a logistical problem, as he didn’t want to contact Sigismund before Hestia had left for school. He had been counting on Rogal leaving after their daughter, which would allow Perturabo enough time to send the message.

“Why don’t you tell Hestia what you’re going there to plan?” Perturabo asked as he placed a plate of eggs and grilled bread in front of his husband.

Dorn looked askance at the meal he had not asked for, but picked up a fork nonetheless. “I’ll have a better idea of how this will work at the end of the day, but I intend for us to visit the main body of the legion as a family.

“May I wear a power sword?” was Hestia’s only question.

“Absolutely not,” said Perturabo at the same time that Rogal answered, “Certainly.”

“Why don’t the two of you talk about that in the car?” Perturabo asked.

“You’re the one who said no,” Hestia observed suspiciously.

She had him there. “Then talk about safety and the rules for carrying one,” Perturabo told them. He thought he’d recovered that well, while getting his family out the door at the same time.

Rogal gave him a subtle, _you are acting peculiar_ expression as he put his plate and cup in the dishwasher. Once he heard the car pull out of the garage, Perturabo went to the vox to set his plan into place.

 

That afternoon, Sigismund opened a shrine door, holding a finger to his lips. Perturabo stepped inside, arms tightening around the blanket he was carrying.

The nerve glove was a black leather body glove, suspended marionette-like from wires in an arched stone niche. Rogal was in it, hanging motionless. Perturabo hadn’t expected that. He imaged Rogal would have been writhing, or grimacing, or at least clenching his jaw. Instead, he was still, his only movement being that of his breathing. He gave no sign of suffering other than that his fists were tight, his eyes closed, and his brow slightly furrowed.

Perturabo turned his attention to the control altar beside the niche. It had a chron, ticking down the minutes until it would automatically switch off. Six minutes and a few seconds remained. Perturabo looked up at Dorn again. Dorn was deep within himself, so Perturabo knew he mustn’t disturb his concentration. He appeared to be gaining something from the experience, and Perturabo wanted to know what it was.

The cycle ended. By the way Dorn slumped forward and gasped, Perturabo guessed the pain switched off suddenly and completely like a light. It also didn’t take Dorn long to recover, open his eyes, and see Perturabo standing there.

“You…”

Perturabo nodded and walked forward. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be here. This is Imperial Fist business.” He touched a button that Perturabo couldn’t see. The glove split vertically down the sides, allowing him to slump to the side and out of it. He was naked beneath, so Perturabo stepped forward without asking and dropped the blanket over him. Dorn smelled of rank stress perspiration and was unable to resist as Perturabo lowered him to the rough stone chapel floor.

Perturabo cradled Rogal in his arms and asked, “Do you want some water?”

Dorn nodded. Perturabo produced a bottle and steadied it as Dorn drank. After he’d let Rogal rest for a few minutes, Perturabo said, “There are no Imperial Fists to have their own business. We’re all the Warsmiths now, remember?”

“Not now. Be quiet and just hold me.”

Perturabo did. Rogal nestled against him. After ten more minutes (Perturabo timed it), he asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I’m ready to get up.” To emphasize it, Dorn sat up and slowly rose to his feet. “I’ll have a shower and we can go home.”

“It’d be easier if we did this at home,” Perturabo said, and instantly regretted it when Rogal’s eyes lit up.

“If you’re serious, Pert, I would like that very much.”

“We need to talk about why you feel you must do this, Rogal. It’s not normal.”

“Perhaps not, but it is effective. I promise to talk to you about it later.”

After dinner, Hestia needed to get together with schoolmates for a project. They took her to the village library and went back to the house to have their discussion.

Perturabo made tea and they settled into the sitting room of their master suite. It held two comfortable chairs facing each other in front of their fireplace. “Hearth” was an important concept to them, so they had most of their intimate and serious discussions beside it.

“I devised the nerve glove as a non-damaging alternative to flogging,” Rogal told Perturabo. “Flogging injures a man. I wanted that to cease, but at the same time I wanted the purifying effect of physical pain to remain.”

“Purifying effect,” Perturabo repeated dubiously.

“It’s more than just discipline. I can assign a man to fasting, or extra duty, but the sensation of paying for his shortcoming and doing penance does not result. When there is pain as a consequence, rather than nuisance, there is purification. As one endures the excruciation, one reflects on the failures that brought him to that place. The failures are burned away in the crucible of agony.”

Perturabo let that sink in. “Is this something in which I should be involved?”

“Please elaborate?”

“I did a little reading because your need to suffer seems to mean so much to you. Since it does, I want to know if you wanted to move that into our private life. It doesn’t have to be sexual,” Perturabo clarified, “just intimate, and between us.”

“The glove is more than just penance though,” Dorn continued. “It is also a meditation. It causes me to rise above the pain. It clears my mind and takes me out of myself.” Perturabo nodded. “It brings you ecstasy, in other words. Literally _ex stasis_ in the old Grekan, out of your ordinary state.”

“Precisely.”

Dorn had yet to say “no” to Perturabo, so Perturabo asked the question, “Do you want to bring some pain into our relations?”

“I’ve told you I do, but I understand, and appreciate, your asking the question directly.”

“I’ve already planned an experiment,” Perturabo told him, and took Dorn’s hand to lead him into their bedroom. He told Dorn to wait as Perturabo went into his dressing room and came back with a thick leather belt he wore with his construction clothing.

Dorn looked at the belt, looked at his husband, and smiled.

 

An hour or so later, they were lying together on the bed. Perturabo was under a blanket because he chilled easily. Dorn lay face down, his rump becoming less red and angry-looking as the moments passed.

The vox beside their bed buzzed loudly, causing them both to awaken with a start. Perturabo grabbed the handset first.

“Perturabo, this is Corax. Your daughter is wondering where you are.”

Rogal grinned at him from across the mattress. Perturabo decided to give his own shyness a kick in the ribs and admitted, “Rogal and I fell asleep after having some couple time.”

“Should I drive her home?”

“Would you? Rogal in particular is in no condition to be in a driver’s seat.”

“Prosperine wine, eh? I understand. I’ll get my keys.”

“We are bad, bad people,” Rogal chuckled after Perturabo hung up.

“Do you need to be disciplined again?”

“I will later, I’m sure.”

Perturabo leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on Rogal’s buttock, even though it was almost completely recovered. “We should get dressed. After Hestia goes to sleep, I’ll show you what I’ve been reading.”


End file.
